Butch Cassidy
by Naja Melanoleuca
Summary: Set just before Devil's Trap, John takes care of Sam after his headache and recounts a time when he did the same for Dean. Contains both Sick Sam and Sick Dean and some indirect mention of Adam.
1. Chapter 1

A/N I own nothing but some knowledge of North Texas and a deep desire to see John Winchester again.

**Butch Cassidy 1**

Sam felt the bed dip but didn't bother to open his eyes, just held his hand out expectantly for the four Excedrin and bottle of water. He wasn't disappointed even though he wasn't ready to try water yet. Besides, he didn't need his eyes or even to smell the slight scent of gun oil and leather mixed with woody smoke to tell him it was Dean taking care of him. Who the hell else would it be? Though Jessica and his roommate before her had tried to take care of him when his then infrequent migraines hit, it was only Dean that could tell just by looking if they were a two pill, four pill, or screw that we need to get you to the hospital for a Demerol drip. Only Dean remembered to shut all the blinds, make sure there was no coffee burning, and have an icepack wrapped in a towel for his forehead and the back of his neck. Yeah, his big, bad brother made a good little nurse maid.

"Sammy," a gentle voice coaxed him to focus for a moment but he still didn't open his eyes, "there is a cup of crushed ice on the nightstand behind you and," he moved Sam's hand over to touch an ice bucket with a slightly damp plastic liner already inserted, "here's a bucket just in case." He couldn't help but hear the concern in his brother's voice. Sam twitched his mouth and hoped Dean understood what he meant. "I've got to take off in a minute, but Dad will be here if you need anything."

Sam wanted to shout, '_don't leave me with Dad. I need you, Dean, to be here and take care of me. Make Dad go get the fake Colt_,' but all he could do was rasp, "how long?" His voice was husky but still not on the dark, gravely level of either John's or Dean's.

He heard Dean sigh but he answered, "300 mile round trip. We'll be cutting it really close." He paused, "Don't worry about it though. Get some sleep and feel better."

Sam shot his hand out, knowing he would pay for it in pain but not caring, "careful." He grunted.

"You know me." He could hear the smirk in his brother's voice, that infuriating smirk that always made Sam feel like everything was going to be ok.

"Yeah, I do, so be careful." He could feel bile burn in the back of his throat from talking too much.

"Fine, Sammy, just go to sleep and I'll be back before you know it." Sam was asleep before he even heard the door close.

He woke about an hour later, thirsty, sort of hungry, and feeling like someone had taken a melon baller and scooped out the front part of his brain. It didn't hurt, so much as feel odd and empty without the pain there. He sat up and reached clumsily for his water bottle.

"You alright?" He almost jumped at his father's hesitant tone. Sam watched him play uncomfortably with the pen in his hand, waiting for an answer. John had never been good at dealing with sick people, that had always fallen to Dean along with a good chunk of other duties involved in rearing a child and apparently little had changed. He stopped the bitter bent of his thoughts though, before blurting it out. He had promised Dean he would try not to pick a fight. He suspected Dean had extracted same promise from their Dad, given the general level of his hesitancy. If they weren't fighting with each other, how exactly were they supposed to communicate?

"Yeah, just thirsty." He finally snatched the bottle and nearly drained it in one gulp. He looked around for another and his dad tossed him one, not wanting to get too close to him. They stared at each other for another moment as Sam sipped his water more slowly and contemplated whether he could eat. The silence was not the comfortable kind that he shared with Dean but nor was it the harsh angry type he used to associate with his father. "Any word from Dean?"

"No, not even your brother could drive to Chicago this fast." They both shared a smile. Dean did drive like a bat out of hell.

"You sent him all the way to Chicago, he must have loved that?" Sam pressed on, leaning back against the head board. He wanted to find the easy common ground with his Dad that Dean had always had. Poking fun at his brother's dislike for large metropolitan areas seemed like a good place to start.

"There was one about 40 miles from here, but Dean picked the one in Illinois because he said they had more than one so he could pick the one that looked closest. Frankly I'm surprised he offered to get that close to a city but I trust him to get the job done." No higher praise from John Winchester could have been bestowed on his son, too bad Dean wasn't there to hear it. Especially after he had stayed up till dawn two nights ago detailing and tuning up both the Impala and their dad's truck just because John had angrily thrown a careless comment at him.

Sometimes, well most of the time, Sam just didn't understand their father. How could the man have such faith in Dean at the same time he derided his eldest making him feel worthless. He had no problem telling Sam how proud he was of him and how smart he thought he was yet refused to listen to a word Sam said. But the minute Dean disagreed, John backed down like movie vampire from a crucifix. Sam wanted to know why, why was it ok to praise him but never Dean and why was Dean's opinion taken as fact while Sam's ignored.

"Dad," he started but couldn't go on as soon as he looked into those brown eyes. The same fears and insecurities that had plagued him since childhood rose to choke off his question. "Can we order pizza?"

"Sure," John eyed him suspiciously but handed him menus from the desk.

Pizza ordered, Sam tried again, "Dad," but again failed, when faced with actually getting an answer. He didn't want things to degenerate into a fight before Dean got back. "Need help with the weapons?" He finished lamely. John shrugged and threw him a gun to clean. They worked in silence until the pizza arrived then he tried again, hoping food would embolden him, "Dad"

"Sam," he inhaled sharply, "if you're going to pussy out and ask me another asinine question because you are too much of a limp dick to ask me what you really want to know, then spare me because if you do, you will be reacquainted with my foot up your ass. So just quit wasting the air and ask your stupid question."

Somehow the sharp rebuke set Sam at ease more than John's semi solicitous attitude from earlier. This was the John Winchester he was used to dealing with, not the one that admitted he was wrong, hugged, or asked for help. "Why is it that I can talk to till I'm blue in the face trying to get you to change your mind about something but all Dean has to do is say he disagrees and you back down immediately?"

John leaned back and sipped at his coffee, vaguely disgusting Sam. Not even Dean drank coffee with pizza. "Because he earned it."

"Earned what, how?" Sam stammered.

"He earned the right to tell me to unass myself, when I'm being idiotic."

"Why, because he's older than me or because he is the favoured son?" Sam tried to keep the resentment from his voice, feeling like a sulky teen again. His promise to Dean already forgotten.

"For Christ sake, Sammy, I don't have a favourite and it has nothing to do with him being older. You were gone for nearly four years and we hunted together and we hunted alone. He's a good hunter and as such, can tell me, when I'm wrong." Sam looked about to protest again but John cut him off, "besides, you know your brother. He never would challenge me unless it was a matter of life or death. Or he's sick," John cocked his head sideways and Sam had to agree. Dean had the disposition of a wounded badger, when he was sick. That was assuming of course you could get him to admit it, which was never easy. "Plus, I figure that if he is going about the trouble of potentially pissing me off, it must be pretty damn important. Unlike you, that seemed to try to see how far you could push me before I finally snapped and beat you to death with a shovel." He quirked one side of his mouth up, showing a dimple. Sam mimicked the half smile, dimple and all. It was true, Dean never stepped toe to toe with John and if he did, he was always the first to back down and show his throat. Sam on the other hand was constantly fighting with his father just for the shear sake of fighting.

"Things changed after you left, Sammy, some for the better some not so much. But one thing that really changed was the way Dean and I worked together. We became more like partners, he was junior but still partners." Sam realized that his father looked almost sad or maybe wistful as he spoke and something seemed to twist in his head. All this time, Sam had assumed that Dean had been desperate to find John because he was worried or wanted to make Sam happy. It never occurred to him that his brother might just genuinely miss John's company, that the two of them might have had a comfortable joking type relationship the same as his and Dean's. That Dean might prefer to hunt with John than himself. He couldn't speculate. He had never quite understood John and Dean's relationship. For a good portion of his life, he had thought it was Stockholm syndrome.

"Like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?" Sam joked with the old nickname Bobby had used for them but there was still bitterness on the back of his tongue. There was not third member of that crew and he had more than started thinking of himself and Dean more as the James brothers.

"Something like that." There was bitterness in John's tone as well and it struck Sam how oddly weird and homoerotically Oedipal his and his father's constant vying for Dean's attention was. When all was said and done, he supposed their little family dynamic wasn't really that odd, if you ignored the fact Dean was male. John was undeniably the father, alpha in the family. Sam was the child, relatively protected and pampered; he hated to admit it but even a bit spoilt. Dean was the mother, below John but above Sam. It was Dean that cooked and cleaned, did laundry and mended scraped knees and broken hearts. He sutured gashes as well as socks and kept both Sam and John from drowning in their own respective pools of grief. He never complained and they both took insane advantage of that fact by piling more and more shit on him as time went on, knowing he could take it without getting hurt and if it did hurt him, he would forgive without a thought. But in the end, he was probably the most important person in both their lives and the one and only person that could control them both with nothing more than a look. Sam decided not to dwell on it any longer, disliking the fact there was another similarity between them.

"Dean has told me next to nothing about those four years. I mean I heard some of it, when we were still talking and a few tidbits here and there but nothing big. Cassie was the most information I got about anything."

"You met the self-centered tramp?" John smiled unkindly.

"Yes," Sam straightened, feeling that without Dean there it fell to him to defend her. Though he had to admit he was shocked that his father was so disrespectful towards her after he had spoken so kindly about Jessica. "She didn't seem that bad. I thought she was smart, funny, tough. I liked her."

"She is. She actually in a lot of ways reminded me of you. She was also a self absorbed, deceitful, little bitch that broke your brother's heart." Sam wondered if the dishonest part applied to him too.

"I don't really think she can be blamed if Dean got overly attached during the few weeks they dated."

"Yeah because 10 months is such a short amount of time."

"Ten months? Dean made it sound like it was a few weeks, a month tops." Sam was shocked. Ten months was only 8 months less than he and Jess were together.

"Well he probably didn't feel like recounting the entire fiasco to you. But yes, they were together for about 10 months before she dumped him like so much dirty laundry."

"She seemed to really care about him. I'm sure she was just freaked out by the whole ghost hunter thing, most people would be." Sam briefly wondered if John's dislike was racially based or because he didn't like sharing Dean's attention with outsiders.

"Of course they would but if they really loved you, most people might listen. Unless, of course, you had always been a good girl and realized that you were about to graduate from college without ever trying anything new or fun. Then a scummy looking guy with a loud car that was the total opposite of everything you had been taught to like came walking in and you decided that you would take your last chance at freedom and lack of responsibility by slumming with said guy. But at some point you realized that scummy guy treats you better and with more respect than any of those nice boys, so you let your one night stand turn into one week then a month and so on. Until you suddenly wake up and realize that you have spent nearly a year with a guy that is nothing like everyone tells you that you should love, so you look for any excuse to get rid of him, ignoring of course that it has been the happiest year of your life. Because you know what you want and you won't let things like yours or other people's feelings get in your way. And besides, scummy guys don't have hearts that can break. So when that excuse presents itself, wrapped in a neat little bow of insanity, you take it like a gift and don't look back, kicking now crazy guy to the curb. Because come on, really, you are so much better than the type that would be with a skuzzy loon." Sam kept his mouth shut, ignoring the niggling voice that reminded him how often he had had similar thought about his 'low class' family, while trying to fit in at Stanford.

"That is of course," John continued, "until your father is killed by a ghost truck then crazy guy doesn't seem quite so crazy and turns back into simply nice scummy guy. You call scummy guy or rather you call scummy guy's father and luckily for you scummy Dad didn't answer because he probably would have told you that 'you deserved to be killed by a vengeful spirit, you self absorbed whore.' But instead you get a hold of scummy and are very nice to him probably reminding him of how much you two meant to each other so he comes to help. Then when it is said and done, you most likely remind scummy that he is scum and you are not so it won't work. Because, again really, you are better than him." Sam now realized that it wasn't race or jealousy that prompted John's dislike but more dangerously, she had roused Papa bear's protective streak and he never had liked anyone screwing with his cubs. He wondered exactly how messed up Dean must have been after wards, for John to still be this pissy with her.

"That's sort of harsh. Does he know you feel that way about her?" Sam was a little thrown by the difference of reality from what he had assumed.

"Yes, he knows. None of that is to say that I didn't like her or that she isn't a good person, she was just very married to this idealized idea of what she needed to have in order to be happy and normal and it always ended with a shiny ring on her finger and 2.5 kids. She never did understand that a diamond in the rough is tougher and worth a hell of a lot more than a sparkly piece of glass and Dean paid the price for it." John ran his hand along the top of his mug. "I never should have let him get involved with her but he had been so down after that last time he talked to you," Sam moved his eyes to side, unwilling to remember that he had basically shoved Dean out of his life for two years. At the time, he had been so focused on fitting in with everyone and was embarrassed of Dean's tatty clothes and callused hands. He supposed maybe he was a bit too much like Cassie or at least used to be. "I saw that he had spent his whole life living for me and you and that he wouldn't stop until we found that Yellow-Eyed bastard. He would throw away his youth and chance at happiness for me and my crusade without a second thought and a part of me didn't want that. I wanted him to have something that was his, something that made him happy. Unfortunately she turned out to be bad candy." Sam nodded in agreement to Dean not taking things for himself but not his reasoning. Dean did what he did to help people, not to make John happy.

"Is that why you two started hunting separately?"

"No, we hunted alone at the beginning, right after you left." Sam had to bite his tongue to not bring up the fact that he had been thrown out.

"What changed? I mean you were always comfortable hunting alone at first and Dean is more than capable though I'm sure he probably hated being by himself that much." John mumbled something that Sam didn't catch. "What was that?"

"I said I missed your brother." He snapped and Sam smiled as his father continued to babble, much like Dean did when he confronted him about loving Cassie. "Besides, it's not like he takes care of himself if no one is around to watch him." Sam had to agree, Dean did have a habit of worrying about everyone else before himself. He saw that first hand with Layla and it still made him queasy to think about it. Dean had been willing to let himself die to protect her.

"Tell me." Sam crawled back in bed, pulling a pillow onto his lap to lean against.

"Christ, kid, you look like you're four." John couldn't hide his smile either. "Fine."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I own nothing but some knowledge of North Texas and a deep desire to see John Winchester again.

Also, thanks for the reviews. It is always nice to know someone enjoys your work.

**Butch Cassidy 2**

Dec 18, 2001

John ignored his ringing phone in favour of listening to a rather interesting debate about religion in schools on NPR. It was just Dean checking in anyway. Plus, it wasn't like he couldn't catch up with the kid in person soon anyway. At the next rest stop, he finally listened to the message and much as he figured it was just Dean telling him the name of the motel he was in and that there was a key waiting for him in the office under the name Wesson. He was slightly surprised Dean beat him to New Fairview, Texas since he had been coming all the way from Oregon and John was only hoofing it from Kentucky. He must have driven the whole night through, which would explain why he sounded half dead in his message. John filed the information away, finished his cup of coffee and the last 400 miles to north Texas.

Three hours later, he expertly pulled his truck in beside the Impala, giving her a cursory inspection in the bright winter sun. She was clean, waxed, and locked so he was pleased. He looked into the windows and was met with drawn shades with no hint of light behind them, if she weren't parked outside, John might have thought he had the wrong room but slid the key into the lock anyway, stepping across a salt line. The room was anything but spectacular; in fact its singular distinguishing feature was how unremarkable it was. The only thing of interest John noticed was the lump slowly coming to life on the bed furthest from the door. He watched Dean rub the back of his hand across his eyes as he woke the same as he had done sine he was the smallest of babies and he felt some of the heaviness in his chest lift.

"Hey, Dad, you ok?" Dean's voice sounded like barbed wire sliding across asphalt, rough and painful.

"Hey yourself," he ignored Dean's perpetual first question about his well being. "A little early for bed isn't it, you alright?" He sat down on the other bed, separated from Dean by less than three feet. He could have reached over and swept his boys bangs from his face if he wanted to but was more concerned with the bags under his bleary looking eyes.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired. I drove straight here, 21 hours. Thought I'd take a nap till you got here." He sat up and John also noticed that he had on a Henley and sweats even though it wasn't that cold. "But since you're here, what do you want to do?"

He looked at the heavy circles under his son's eyes and suddenly realized just how tired he himself was. "I like the idea of a nap. We'll sleep till 6 then grab some chow, " he tried not to notice the naked relief in Dean's eyes as he sank back under his cocoon of thin motel blankets, shutting his eyes. John followed suit and three hours later when he woke, he felt much more rested and relaxed than he had in ages.

By the time they finally made it to supper, John was starving and in a surprisingly good mood. He decided to splurge and take Dean to an actual name brand restaurant rather than their usual mom and pop fair. If he was surprised that Dean only ordered eggs and toast, he was too hungry to register it.

"So, what have you found out so far?" John asked as he leaned back in his chair, nursing a cup of coffee. He had finally exhausted all his jokes over Dean choosing hot coco with whipped cream over coffee.

Dean reached in his coat pocket and pulled out his journal, flipping to the appropriate page. He cleared his throat, which John absently realized was about the 6th time during supper he had done it, and began to read off facts. "In the last three months there have been four unexplained deaths along Old Decatur road. There have been nearly 20 dating back to the 60's though. All the victims have been white males between the ages of 35 and 55. Coroner reports list the causes of death as massive heart attacks but not one of them had any preexisting heart conditions. Most of the victims complained of stomach pain and seeing everything turning yellow," he looked up at John, "strange, I know. County health examiners went over the stretch of road with a fine tooth comb, assuming there was a toxic spill but they couldn't find anything. One of the wives, said she was on the phone with her husband, just before he died, she said she distinctly heard the sound of static and scratching, even though there is a cell tower right there.

"The police only investigated the second, Mark Hendrickson, because he had a fairly substantial life insurance claim." He coughed lightly into his hand and sipped his coco. "I haven't had a chance to talk to anyone yet or check the county records for any more unexplained deaths." Dean rubbed his hand along his throat and ended by massaging the back of his neck.

"Well, it's too late for us to talk to anyone tonight so we'll start with county records and interview the families to see if there is anything connecting them. But sounds like a vengeful spirit to me." Dean nodded and replaced his book into his pocket. "We can still go take a look at that stretch of road though, see if there are any lights or apparitions. I'm about the right age to attract the thing if being a white male really is a factor." Dean nodded again and finished his drink.

Outside the night had grown downright cold and dampness and clouds were replacing the clear skies of the afternoon. One thing about Texas, John had always agreed with, if you didn't like the weather you only had to wait an hour and it would change. John drove them by Dean's directions to the 10 mile stretch of road all the men had been found on. It looked like any other piece of back country road he had driven over the years. And he felt his heart warm as he and Dean searched the edges, discussing recent jobs all against the back drop of the Eagles. The Impala's rumbling engine, a familiar hum, feeling like home.

There was in fact a cell tower and both John and Dean had perfect reception all along the road. They found nothing of interest expect an old lady with a flat tire. By the time they helped her jack her duelly Dodge up and change the tire, they were both drenched from the cold rain that had started. John shook it off, mostly comfortable in his heavy coat, while Dean seemed to be wracked by constant shivers in his lighter canvas coat. John remembered too late that Dean had lost his thick coat to a water wraith a few weeks ago and must not have gotten a chance to replace it yet.

They cruised the area a few more times but John decided to turn back when he noticed Dean's nail beds were blue. Sometimes Dean's stoicism really got on his nerves. If the kid was that cold, he should have just turned the heat on or asked to go home. Sam would have but then again Dean wasn't Sam, which probably accounted for why he hadn't had to raise his voice once since he had gotten here.

Back at the motel, John offered Dean first shower privileges but the younger Winchester declined, instead changing back into his sweats and crawling into bed. John felt a tingle of worry creep up his spine but ignored it figuring the kid was still just tired. After a long, hot shower under a showerhead that was actually high enough he didn't feel like he had to be contortionist to wash his hair, he came out hoping to brainstorm about the case. His plans were foiled though, when he found Dean dead asleep, flat on his back with one hand under his pillow. He couldn't help but smile, knowing that both Dean and himself would sleep better than they had in ages, secure in the knowledge the other was just a few feet away. No worry or fear of not knowing where the other was, no making sure their cell phone ringers were on the loudest volume to make sure to wake them if an emergency call for help came, and no need to sleep with one eye open because there was no one to guard your back. Yeah, he could understand why his son was sacked out so early and thought maybe he should follow suit. After reading up some more, that was.

He woke the next morning to the smell of coffee brewing and the sound of the shower running. He squinted at the clock, glaring its turquoise 7:48 brightly at him. He had gone to bed around midnight, fully intending to be up with the sun or at least before his son. Guess maybe he felt safer with Dean around too and slept deeper than usual. By the time Dean emerged from the steam filled bathroom, cheeks pink and eyes looking guilty, John was already up and ready for breakfast. "Any day now, princess," he threw over his shoulder with a grin and left to get a paper. He missed Dean's answer but to his credit, the kid was dressed and beside him within 5 minutes.

John rested his bum against the cold metal of the Impala's bonnet and held out his hand for the keys. Dean reluctantly handed them over, doing a poor job at hiding his displeasure over being relegated back to passenger in his own car. John again didn't hide his smile, remembering Dean's bittersweet 21st birthday, when he had officially given him the car. John had completely missed his son's 18th and 19th birthdays and though he had planned for 20 to be special it had turned into an apocalyptic fight between himself and Sammy with Dean spending most of the night cleaning his birthday dinner out of the grout lines on Bobby's kitchen floor rather than dealing with either of them. But for 21 John had made it extraordinary. Dean had been over the moon at the gift, he loved that car like few other things in life. Not that John could blame him, he had been both conceived and born in the back seat. John suspected his eldest had probably slept and had sex in that back seat more often than a real bed too, though he wasn't about to ask. But he also remembered the sadness that had played around those green eyes, Mary's eyes, on that day. Because Dean realized that it was the first step of them breaking apart. It meant no more long drives with the three Winchesters crammed inside the old beauty, now it would be him and Sam and later just him. That day Dean had gotten the one tangible thing he wanted more than anything else, while slowly losing the one thing he cared about above all other things, his family.

He turned the key and felt the engine jump to life under him. Yeah, his truck was more state of the art. It had air conditioning, radar detection, CB radio, power steering and breaks, and automatic windows and weapons cash but this, this was home. This is where Sammy learned to read, where he went to cry about Mary when he needed to be alone, and where Dean developed the patience of a saint, while playing controller between two unstoppable freight trains named John and Sam Winchester. Damn, that was the main reason he had stayed away from Dean for the last two and half months, being around him inevitably brought up thoughts of Sam and all the shit associated with him.

But, somehow he was still smiling, as they pulled into the small dinner less than a mile away from the motel. For some reason he had smiled more in the last half day than he had in half a year. In turn, Dean gave a perfunctory grin to the 40 something woman behind the counter. She returned it indulgently but her eyes were on John. Yeah, he still had it, if he chose to use it anyway. It was clear she saw Dean as way too young. The kid hadn't shaved and kept his hair well styled, against his own inclination of having it very short, in an attempt to play older or younger at will. He could maybe add or subtract 5 years to his age but that was about it. He had Mary's baby face, which often hampered him in playing a federal agent. The only thing that saved him was how old his eyes looked.

They slid into a booth, both ordering coffee and pancakes. He loved pancakes. As soon as Dean was old enough to really cook, he would always make them for John, his first morning back from a hunt, without fail. It was just a sort of tradition they developed that had fallen by the wayside since they hadn't seen each other in two and half months. But to this day, he associated pancakes with his eldest. He slathers his in syrup, skipping the butter while Dean ate his with butter and jelly. It was a really strange habit that John had never been able to figure out. When Dean was a kid, he loved syrup, but then all of a sudden around the time he was 8 or so, he started eating jelly on his pancakes or waffles. Weird, as far as John was concerned and he didn't like weird.

"Why do you do that?" He asked, just to make conversation. Dean's silences were quiet, the absence of talking, while Sammy's were always loud and cluttered with anger. But John had had 2 and a half months of silence and now he wanted noise.

"Do what?" John noticed his voice sounded raspy again and wondered if he was getting sick. But then again, this was the first thing he had heard the kid say all day so maybe that was it. Though, he did look a little pale.

"Eat jam on pancakes. It's gross."

"It's good," Dean defended himself then changed the subject. "So where to first, county records, library, or relatives?"

"County records. We need to see if we can dig up any thing in common between these men, then we'll hit the families." They both finished their coffee and Dean dug in his pocket for money. John waved him off, figuring that Dean had paid for the hotel room; he could at least get food.

They drove to the Wise County hall of records and John let Dean handle data collection with the perky little brunette manning the desk. Half an hour later, John had mapped out routes to all the families and Dean had all the recorded info on the dead, their relatives, and how they died, along with a phone number he immediately threw away. Even if he disregarded the raspy voice and pallor, that should have been John's first clue. If John was pressed to pick a singular noun to describe his eldest he would be torn between _hunter_ and _man-whore_.

Four families and nearly five hours driving from farm to farm and John was pretty sure they were dealing with either a woman in white or a phantom hitcher of some kind. Either way, they just had to ID it and destroy the corpse. However, Dean was worrying him more than the case. It wasn't unusual for Dean to be pretty quiet and let John take the lead on things, in fact that was pretty much what he insisted on. But this was different; Dean was too quiet and pale. He had been keeping track over the last few hours and noticed how often Dean sipped at water, rubbed his forehead, shivered, or cleared his throat. Yup, John was pretty sure his son was sick, though he doubted Dean would admit it. He had even asked, about 30 minutes ago and gotten snapped at in return. He let it slide. Dean had an excellent poker face but to those that knew him well, he had two tells that he was hurt or sick. The first was that he got ornery. Normally he would never presume to snap at his father unless he was sick and trying to hide it. He never bothered to tell Dean about it because then his son by try to hide that too. A father had to maintain some tricks.

The second was harder to spot but right 100 percent of the time. The poor kid had inherited his mother's china white complexion and freckles. And where normally in the winter his colour hovered somewhere around bleached linen, when he was sick it dipped south of fish belly white. He wasn't quite there yet but he was certainly looking like he could camouflage into snow. But John ignored it, concentrating on the case, figuring the kid probably had a cold or something benign like that, until they were driving through Decatur on their way back from a farm outside of New Harp and the home of the second victim in the last three months, Hendrickson.

Something about Hendrickson was seriously cheesing him off but he couldn't put his finger on it. The guy died the same way and fit the same pattern as the rest but for some reason John thought there was more. The widow used exactly the same phrases as the newspaper to describe how her husband was found. It seemed odd, even if they had been quoting her. But she also said he mentioned seeing blue halos around everything, none of the others had said anything about blue halos, just the weird yellow visual effect. He relaxed into the drive, hoping that if he didn't think directly on it, the answer would come to him. But he was interrupted.

"Hey, Dad, can you pull over for minute?" He looked over at Dean and realized that his appearance had definitely degenerated to closer to corpse grey.

"Why?" He never was quite sure why he asked that other than a sick satisfaction with getting Dean to admit something was wrong.

"Because I feel like I'm going to hurl and I don't want to do it inside the car." Luckily John was already cutting through what little traffic there was and pulled up behind a fairly new looking Kroger. Dean got out of the car and purposefully walked behind it. John tapped the steering wheel wondering what he should do when he watched in the rear view mirror as Dean bent over and heaved. He inwardly groaned. He was not good with sick people. Injuries he could handle until they became a nuisance but illnesses were beyond him. If he were sick, Dean took care of him. If Sammy were sick, Dean took care of him. If Dean were sick, Dean took care of himself. He really hoped this wasn't any different.

He watched his son heave a few more times before Dean disappeared out of sight. John jumped out, swearing that it wasn't really worry propelling him behind the car, just curiosity. He found his son crouched down puking up green slime. The only thing keeping him from tipping over was the death grip he had on the back bumper of the Impala. John backed away again and ducked into the car to grab a bottle of water and some napkins. By the time he returned, Dean had pulled himself back up and was leaning against the trunk, attempting to spit the horrid taste out of his mouth.

"Here," John handed him the napkins and water. He accepted it with a forced smile rinsed his mouth out. John could see his hands were shaking. Indecision warred with worry inside of him, when Dean pushed himself away from the car and got back in. John followed suit, keeping a wary eye on his son as if he was going to spew on him any minutes. "I'll take you back to the motel."

"No, I'll be fine. Let's just finish talking to the families and hit the library to see if we can figure out who exactly the ghost is." His voice sounded downright painful.

"Are you sure?" John reached his hand out and rested the underside of his wrist on Dean's forehead, just like Mary had taught him so many years ago. The kid was hot but quickly squirmed out from under him.

"I'm fine."

"You have a fever."

"I'm fine." He growled and John knew from the arguing he was anything but.

"I really think you need to," was as far as John got before Dean snapped at him again.

"Can we just get going and finish the case before someone else bites it?"

"Ok," he answered conciliatorily, "We'll head back out after lunch." He pulled the car back out on the main drag, hoping he could convince Dean to surrender by playing dirty. "There's a chili and barbeque place right down the road. We'll eat then hit the Gordon's south of here." To the kid's credit all he did was swallow convulsively, then nod his head.

The food wasn't bad but more importantly, like most backwoods BBQ places, it wreaked of meat. John was pretty sure Dean was going to lose it the second he walked in but he didn't. No matter how much John suggested, cajoled, and everything short of a direct order, Dean wouldn't touch anything but a glass of Sprite. He actually did pretty well until John started eating his coleslaw, at which point he tried to dash to the restroom. John put his foot on the end of the booth, blocking Dean in. "Goin' somewhere, kiddo?"

"No, sir." He ground out, swallowing twice. John just smiled and finished his lunch. This was all part of the song and dance they did, when Dean was sick. He would do anything in his power to never admit he was ill and John would do anything he could think of to get him to admit it and take care of himself. If he was honest though, sometimes it got kind of fun.

An hour later, he was proud of Dean. He hadn't regurgitated or cracked yet. He would have thought it was a fluke and the kid was actually fine now but John had seen corpses in Vietnam that looked healthier. They had just left widow Fitzpatrick's farm and had no where left to go but the library, which neither of them were relishing. Staring at microfilm reels for hours tended to give both of them motion sickness. He looked over at Dean, and noticed he had his sunglasses on and his head resting against the window, shivering. John snaked his hand out, resting it against Dean's forehead. He felt like he had touched a radiator. Dean jerked away from him, barely suppressing a wince.

"Cut it out, Dad, I'm fine." He sat up straighter and tried to stop himself from shivering. He did a good job except for the small tremors running across his hands.

John turned the heat up a little bit. "Fine if I want to fry an egg on your head."

"Dad," he said between clenched teeth in a warning tone as if he were talking to a very annoying child.

"Ok, ok. We'll head to the library." John smiled evilly at his son. He was so going to make Dean dig through the microfilm.

They drove another half hour or so in complete silence before Dean spoke up, "Dad, can you pull over again?"

He looked over and Dean had crossed from grey into green. "There's a rest stop about a mile up, according to the signs."

"Now." He barely choked out and John didn't want to chance wasting any more time. He hadn't even put the car in park before Dean was hanging out of the door retching.

John rested his hand on Dean's shoulder, partially for support and partially to stop him from toppling over into a puddle of his own puke. The poor kid looked that bad and it didn't help that he was grinding the heel of his hand into his forehead like it was about to come apart. No more playing around, he decided. Dean was going back to the hotel and going to bed. Mind made up and all was right with the world until he saw the flashing blue and red lights in the rear view mirror. He tried desperately to remember if there were any warrants for him in Texas.

"Christ, Dad, I'm sorry." Dean groaned in between two heaves. John patted him reassuringly on the back and jumped out. No cop was getting near his son, when he was so defenseless.

"Is there a problem, officer?"

"I was just about to ask you the same thing." He drawled at them, sounding more Oklahoma than East Texas. "You boys need any assistance?"

"No, I don't think so. My son and I came down to pay respects to his aunt, mother's side. She just lost her husband, had a heart attack up on Old Decatur road about two weeks ago, Mark Hendrickson." John always found that lies that had a hint of truth in them worked best and a man named Mark Hendrickson had died just a few weeks ago on Old Decatur road. "We drove down and he gets car sick." John smiled, what he hoped was a Mea Culpa smile. Dean had never gotten car sick in his entire life.

"Sorry to hear that, sir. That's husband number three she's buried. No offense." The officer, John read his name as Balster, smiled.

John smiled back, "none taken, as I said it's his mother's side, very ex wife."

"Yup, know how that goes. Anyway I heard your mother in law buried four husbands so guess you're lucky you got out alive."

"Damn straight," he laughed, the wheels in his head turning.

"Dad," Dean croaked, drawing the attention of both men. Terrible timing, as John wanted to bilk the cop into giving him more info but when he turned around and saw how pitiful Dean looked, staggering towards him, white as ghost, and shivering like a new born colt all thoughts of the case vanished.

"Hey, kiddo, get back in the car and sit down." John took him by the elbow and steered him back over the pile of nasty, greenish vomit by the door.

"I'm really sorry, Dad." He knew Dean meant it but was playing it up to get the cop to feel sorry for him.

"Just relax and we'll find a hotel so you can lie down for the night." He looked back at Officer Balster, "Is there anything else, Officer?"

"No, sir," he tipped his hat, "and you listen to your dad, boy, and you'll be right as rain in no time."

"Thanks," John smiled as he closed Dean's door. "By the way, you wouldn't happen to know where I could find out which cemetery Lisa Hendrickson's father is buried in? The boy promised his mother he would put some flowers down but didn't say where he was."

"Oh, he's probably in the small cemetery up on Five Point road, same place Hendrickson is." He tipped his hat and headed back to his car. "Y'all take care."

John slid in next to Dean, who was sipping at his water. "So where to, the library?" If possible, he sounded worse. His voice cracked like he was still in puberty, eliciting an annoyed scowl.

"You are going back to the motel and to bed. Then I am going to the library and following a hunch. Looks like Hendrickson's widow and her mother were black widows. I'm interested to see when that first death took place."

"What was her maiden name?" Dean shuffled through papers he pulled onto his lap, coughing every so often, making John nervous.

"Linton, I think."

"A George Linton died on that road in '59 but it was a car crash." He coughed and John looked over in time to see him pale even more and sip his water. "We should try and track down his death certificate or any articles about it."

"I will, but you are going to bed." Again John reached out and put his hand against Dean's forehead. "Christ, kiddo, you are burning up."

"I'm fine."

"Obviously, must be why you just upchucked all over the great state of Texas."

"Dad," he started but this time John cut him off.

"Shut up! You are going back and going to bed, that is an order, do I make myself clear."

"Yes, sir." Dean shrank against the passenger seat, satisfying John he would get his own way. He knew parents weren't supposed to have favourites but whoever said he was a good parent. He loved Sammy, probably the best of all. He treated Adam the best, letting him have a life, be a kid. But he actually liked Dean the best. His eldest was like a well trained dog, '_stay here and guard this, go there and kill that, hunt this creature. Be quiet and do what you are told then wag your tail and lick my face every time I show up even if I don't deserve it._' As long as he was fed and allowed to hump his way through the lower forty-eight John wasn't really required to do anything.

They drove in silence until getting to the motel. John made a singular stop at a small store to get Gatorade, water, and Tylenol, not being sure if the kid kept his first aid kit in shape. He pulled up beside his truck and threw the old girl into park, stomping on the parking break with practiced ease. "Get out," he shot at his quiet companion.

"Dad, seriously, I'm ok. It's probably just a 24 hour bug or something. I can go with you and help." John didn't quite understand the desperation in Dean's voice but he was tired of arguing. The kid was sick and needed to go to bed and get over it. When he was sick, all he ever wanted to do was curl up someplace warm and quiet to sleep. Of course with two sons, that had always been next to impossible but hey, who said parenthood was easy.

"Seriously, kid," he ground out "I don't want or need your help. So get in there, get some fluids in you, and lie down before I lay you out!"

Dean closed his eyes and nodded, "yes sir." Just before he closed the door he asked, "can you leave me a message and let me know how it went, if you take off while I'm asleep?"

John sort of felt like the he had just gotten sucker punched in the gut. Did Dean really think he would just take off in the middle of the night and not tell him he was leaving, especially when the kid was so sick? He knew he wasn't father of the year but he wasn't that much of a cold hearted bastard. He knew how much Dean worried about him and would freak out if he just disappeared. Hell, he would probably drive himself half crazy trying to find him. Part of him wanted to pull Dean back in and give him a hug, telling him that just because Mom and Sam left didn't mean he would too but the other part wanted to smack him across the mouth and tell him to quit acting like a weepy woman. He chose the middle ground, "you have three second before I start swinging." Besides, he figured he probably just felt a little guilty since he had spent 6 of the last 10 weeks away from Dean with Adam. Even John Winchester wasn't so oblivious he didn't realize how shitty it was to spend time pampering one son while sending the other up against two skin walkers.

He waited for Dean to close the door behind him then took off again in the impala. He saw no reason to switch cars, plus it guaranteed Dean would stay put till he got back. Noting short of life or death would convince Dean to drive John's truck without his express permission and he hadn't given it.

He spent the next four hours at the library, researching death certificates and other assorted information. He was now fairly certain that Linton was either the ghost or the first victim of it. He found the grave and figured he and Dean could head up there after dark and burn him. If the killings stopped after that, then they were done. Of course, that was all depending on if Dean had gotten his urge to purge under control or not. Just in case, he decided to do a drive by of the cemetery and see how much security they would need to get through.

There was little to nothing blocking the entrance to the older portion of the yard but it was odd that there were flowers growling all over the guy's grave. They were long with purple down turned bells. They didn't look like much but John picked one anyway and took it with him. He headed back to the hotel, feeling fairly pleased that he had figure it out. It should be an easy salt and burn, even if he had to do it alone.

He made a stop at the diner, where he picked up food for himself and Dean. The same lady was working the counter, so John assumed she must own the place. One comment about his son being sick and he had a bag filled with chicken soup, fresh bread, and an entire freakin' apple pie. How he loved small town people. He hummed to himself the short drive back, excited to get this case finished and on to a more interesting one. If only he could figure out why Widow Hendrickson was still bugging him.

He opened the door, without knocking and caught Dean coming out of the bathroom. The kid was pasty enough to make Snow White look tanned but had a slight fever flush across his nose and cheeks and was wearing sweat pants, a Henley, and a flannel shirt. He noticed the water on the night stand was about a quarter gone, but nothing else had been touched. "Hey, dad." He croaked as he crawled back under the thin blanket and bedspread, trying to cover as much of himself as he could while still sitting up.

"Hey, yourself. Felling better?" He didn't know why he bothered asking. He knew with a high degree of certainty that he kid had just finished vomiting again but would say that he was fine.

"Yeah, I told you, just a 24 hour bug or something." He sounded nasal and was squinting at the lights like they hurt his eyes. Poor kid was really messed up.

"I know but remember the rules, if you're still puking in 24 hours you have to go to a doctor." One of the few things that drove a Winchester to seek medical help was stomach bugs. He still hadn't gotten over the scare from when Sammy had been 3 and gotten so dehydrated that his veins stood out like ropes under his skin and he couldn't even produce tears. Ever since then he didn't let either of his boys suffer through vomiting for very long without medical help and conversely, Dean didn't let him.

John pulled out his supper and sat down to eat. Dean seemed disinclined to join him at the small table, just feeding his theory that the kid was still sick. But just like it was written in a script, he denied it, "I'll be ready to rumble in a few hours, dad, don't worry."

"So you aren't right now?" he raised his eyebrow, calling Dean on his slip up.

"You have something you need me to do?"

"Yeah, eat your soup and tell me why Hendrickson is bugging me so much"

Dean picked at his soup, mostly just stirring it around and sipping at the broth. Another sure sign he was still ill. Dean was rarely ever off his feed. "You figure out who the ghost is?"

"I think it's the old man Linton. He was the first and when I went to his grave, these were growing all over it but just on the grave." He produced the flower he had picked.

Dean sat forward to look at it. "That's foxglove, Hendrickson had it all over his front lawn."

"You a master botanist now? I seem to recall you barely passed biology." John wasn't quite sure why he sniped at Dean. If Adam had said it, he would have been proud and if Sammy had said it, he would have taken it as the gospel truth but something about accepting Dean as knowing something he didn't bothered him.

"Anatomy was always my strong suite, actually but Pastor Jim used to make us learn medicinal plants. This one looks like chamomile but is poisonous. You make digitalis out of it. In high doses it is always fatal and rarely detectible because it breaks down so quickly."

"Jim taught you that?"

"X-Files. The episode called Eve 6 the creepy kids tried to kill Mulder and Skully with it." John rolled his eyes, only his son. But Dean got up and dug around in one of their books, it was the home medical bible they carried for self diagnosis. "One of the side effects is seeing everything in yellow," he read on quietly, moving his lips along with his finger. "_'Prolonged exposure at high doses often causes a blue halo effect to the patient's vision'_." He read out loud.

John leaned back, wheels in his head turning. "So Linton was eating foxglove while driving on Decatur Road and died from it, now keeps killing other people with it. Sounds sort of lame." He already saw where Dean was heading but wanted him to think it through himself. No matter how many times his oldest proved he was just as smart as John and maybe even Sam, he just couldn't get past his memory of that quiet five - six year old that had problems reading and nearly flunked out of grade one. And he didn't care what Bobby or Jim said, it had had nothing to do with emotional trauma or neglect. The kid had just not been very bright.

"Not if Mrs. Linton was slipping it to him at home and he just happened to have died on Decatur Road."

"Women do tend to use poison, when they want to kill." John scratched his beard, thinking hard. "But what's the connection with the other victims?" He sat us straighter, "Wait a minute, you said the halo is only with long term use but not short term?" Dean double checked and nodded his head. John ignored the slight wince the made from doing it. "What do you want to bet that the ghost never even got Hendrickson."

"Probably, its how her mother did it." Dean drank some water and rubbed his throat, coughing. "What if he is like some demented woman in white?"

"Sure, it fits, except that he is a dude," John scoffed.

"I know but what if instead of his husband cheating on him and killing his kids, dooming himself to go after unfaithful men; he was murdered by and unfaithful wife and now goes after any adulterer?"

"Why all men, seems like he would have a hard on for women?"

"Men statistically cheat more often." Dean leaned forward and hung his head.

"Not bad." John smiled. "We'll go take care of him and be done with North Texas for a while."

"OK" Dean leaned forward, pressing his fingers against his temples and licking his lips. John sat back and waited for it, unsurprised when Dean made his way back into the bathroom. A few moments later he heard the sounds of his son bring up his supper. He pushed the remains of his meal away and decided they weren't going anywhere tonight.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I own nothing but some knowledge of North Texas and a deep desire to see John Winchester again.

Also, thanks for the reviews. It is always nice to know someone enjoys your work.

I also now realize that, given the dates on the show, John wouldn't actually have met Adam yet. Oops.

**Butch Cassidy 3**

They sat discussing the case for another half hour before Dean's eyelids grew so heavy he was losing the battle to keep them opened. John forced him to lie down and try to sleep, which didn't take long to claim him. With the case nearly finished, he relaxed back into trying to find the next interesting bad guy. Nearly two hours slipped away from him when he saw Dean sit up, looking utterly miserable. It took him less than 10 seconds to make a run for the toilet again. John tried to ignore the sounds but after a few minutes, curiosity or maybe parental concern got the better of him and leaned against the outside doorframe. He debated what to do when he heard another serious of unpleasant heaves and even a low groan or two. He almost opened the door but his general discomfort around sick people stayed his hand. Instead he sat back down, bouncing his leg and making deals with himself that "if Dean wasn't out in 5 minutes he would go check on him," and so on.

Luckily for him, Dean soon came out, looking even worse than he did when he went in. John watched him, at least giving him the dignity to not ask how he was doing. Dean curled up under his covers and shivered, suffering silently until he was able to fall asleep again. John made a special note, that he hadn't had anything to drink yet. He watched him shake and shiver in his sleep another half hour before he couldn't take it anymore and retrieved the extra blanket out of the back of the Impala. He tucked it around his son and was instantly met with glazed green eyes squinting at him. "Go back to sleep," John told him, and on a whim carded his fingers through Dean's hair. The look he was given was a mix of complete love and trust, so like the look Mary used to give him, when she told him that she loved him. It was like they were both just grateful for his mere existence. He had never seen that look from Adam and couldn't remember the last time Sam had worn it for anyone, even his brother. Then Dean closed his eyes and sighed, snuggling even lower under the blanket. John was almost painfully reminded of all the times he had done this, when Dean was a boy and conversely how long it had been since he had seen Dean as his boy and not his soldier.

He sank back onto his own bed and decided he probably shouldn't get too comfortable. He allowed himself to doze for nearly an hour and a half until he heard Dean stirring again. The poor kid was up and puking again and John wondered what the kid was bringing up since he hadn't eaten or drunken anything and if there were any bars still open. It wasn't that he didn't love his kids, it was just that he absolutely hated seeing them sick. And when John Winchester was unhappy in any way, it showed up as anger, which was usually taken out on Dean. Really, John wanted to get away to protect Dean, or so he kept saying to himself.

He leaned against the doorway again but this time actually opened it. He was met with the sight of his eldest crouched in front of the toilet, coughing and spitting up bile green sludge that reminded John of a mixture of buttermilk and antifreeze. One hand fisted in his hair, the other wrapped around his pitching stomach. John sort of felt like being sick himself, when Dean groaned and heaved again. "You gonna make, kiddo?" he asked, unsure what else to do. It had been so long since he was called upon to look after anyone but himself, especially Dean, who looked up at him, his eyes warring between sheer misery and attempted bravery. It too was just like Mary, when she had been pregnant with Dean. She had been dreadfully sick at first and he never quite knew what to do to make her feel better. She had known how bad he felt about that and always tried to downplay how horrid she felt. He often wondered if it was nature or nurture that made Dean notorious for doing the same thing.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine." He stood up, flushing his sickness away and John moved a step closer, worried the kid would fall. But he didn't, only swayed slightly and staggering over to rinse his mouth out. "I'm sorry, dad, I didn't mean to wake you up." He coughed, leaning over and dry heaving twice for good measure. John felt like bolting right then and there but he managed not to, barely. "Do you want me to get another room?"

"Don't be a fucking idiot!" He snapped. Did Dean really think he was such a jackass that he would want the kid to move to another room so as not to inconvenience him? Did he really think that John had forgotten all the times Dean had stayed up taking care of Sammy or worse taking care of him when he was shattered after a hunt or so drunk he couldn't even walk into the head to puke his guts out? And the kid hadn't complained, not once and now he thought John would kick him out because he had an upset stomach. He took a deep breath and tried to level his voice down from a yell, "no reason to be sorry, I was only dozing."

Dean met his eyes in the mirror, "you should get some sleep, you look tired." Which frankly was true and yet laughable considering how bad Dean looked.

"I will, if you will," John smiled and backed away, "and drink something. You'll start to dehydrate from all that horfing, if you aren't careful."

Dean dutifully sipped at his water and curled back up under his blankets in a shivering ball of misery. John watched him for a bit before shutting off the light and waiting for the next round and hoping it wouldn't come. He couldn't stop his mind from wandering to Sammy, when he was sick. Sam was the dramatic one of the family, especially when he was younger. If Sammy was ill, everyone from gas station attendants to school nurses was made aware of it. He always assumed that Sam did it to get attention and had eventually been proved right when he had been sick and Dean wasn't there. Sam had mentioned it but sucked it up and kept going just like Daddy and big brother did. Dean on the other hand would just suck it up without mentioning it. It really sort of annoyed John that Dean didn't seem to think he needed to know when his son was sick, which was better than the alternative that Dean thought John just wouldn't care.

After an hour he relaxed into a good sleep, assuming Dean was over the worst of it. He had been wrong. Just after 1am, something subtle woke him. He kept his eyes closed and breathing even, trying to discern what caused him to wake. His senses on high alert, he finally cracked his eyes opened and realized it was Dean that woke him. He hadn't gotten up or run to the bathroom but he was sitting up in bed, knees drawn to his chest and forehead resting against them. Pain lines were barely visible around his eyes from the faint lights above the vanity. There were slight tremors running through him, whether from pain or fever chills John was unsure. He seemed oblivious to his audience, for which John should have been disappointed but instead was grateful, when Dean rose slowly to wobble back into the washroom to be sick.

John could tell that he was trying to be quiet about it, in deference to his sleeping father. He felt sort of like crap that Dean was worried about waking him at a time like this. But then again, maybe it was just easier to concentrate on that than his stomach trying to turn itself inside out. This time seemed to persist even longer than the last, and John was getting really worried, when he finally heard the toilet flush and the door creak open. He still pretended to be asleep, at least giving that to his son. But he kept his eyes cracked slightly, so he could still see. He watched Dean stagger and barely catch himself against the wall and then slide down to sit on the floor, as if he was afraid he would fall on his ass any second. John couldn't take it anymore, when Dean hugged his knees, resting his head against them again, looking to all the world like a casually dressed cadaver.

He jumped up and was in front of Dean before the kid even noticed he was awake. "Dean, come on, let's get you back to bed." John took him by one bicep and hauled him up. They lurched towards the bed. John deposited him at the top of it and he immediately tried to curl back up under the covers. He pushed Dean's hair up off his forehead and nearly yelped at how hot his son was. "Christ, kiddo, you're burning up." He rummaged around in the first aid kit to find the thermometer. Dean didn't even fight him when he proffered it and John read the results out loud, "104.1, impressive." He opened the generic bottle of acetaminophen he had brought earlier.

"Yeah but not the worst I've had." Dean croaked at him. The boy's natural body temperature had always run high, especially after he hit puberty. It was usually well over 99.5 degrees so John never really worried unless he saw a number over 105.

"No, not the worst but judging from how cold you feel and those fever chills, I'm guessing it wants to go higher so," he handed Dean two extra strength tablets. Dean glared at them as best he could with his bleary eyes but unlike Sam, took them without any verbal complaint. He barely contained the grimace as he swallowed them and John could have kicked himself. Dean's throat must be sore as hell from all the vomiting and he had bought the cheapest uncoated pinwheel shaped pills he could find. Dean would have thought of that and bought the more expensive but practical gelcaps or maybe even liquid. "Try and get some more sleep. If you need anything, just call." He pet Dean's hair again, hoping to diminish some of the discomfort around his eyes. The kid must have a killer headache with that fever.

"Are you leaving?" Dean didn't meet his eyes. With Sam that meant he was lying, with Dean it usually meant he knew he wouldn't like the answer.

"No! I'm not going to leave you here to choke to death on your own vomit."

"I'll be fine, Dad, it's just a stomach bug."

John ground his teeth together, questioning why he had come back in the first place. Sam hadn't needed him, Dean clearly didn't need him. Hell, Adam probably didn't need him either so why was he subjecting himself to this? Instead of turning around and walking out, he savagely flicked Dean directly between his eyes, noting the exact moment pain exploded behind the kid's eyes. Dean was mostly unsuccessful at hiding the hiss and it strangely made John feel better. "Clearly just a stomach bug." He moved back to sit on the edge of his own bed. "Besides, it's nearly 1:30, where the hell would I go anyway?"

"Yeah, bars in Texas close at 2am." Damn, kid knew him too well.

"Dean, go to sleep. I'm not going anywhere." He looked at his father searchingly for a minute, then rolled over and went back to sleep. John didn't bother hiding his smile. Anyone else might be insulted by having a back turned on them but in Winchester speak it was a great show of trust. He was subconsciously telling John that he believed him, that it was ok to relax without his back to the wall.

John waited until Dean's breathing became even if very snuffly sounding and filled the small rubbish bin with a bit of water and put it beside Dean's bed. If the kid was that unsteady on his feet, he didn't want him making any more mad dashes for the bathroom. And it was a good choice too since no sooner had John lied back down was Dean stirring, looking decidedly green around the gills.

"You ok?" John ventured, ready to spring out of the way if need be but it was unnecessary, Dean sprang up instead from the other side of the bed and lurched towards the toilet. The rather distinctive sound of liquid hiding carpet, let him know the kid didn't make it in time. At which point he remembered the basin he had put down for just such an emergency. He shook his head, wondering again how Mary had talked him into this whole fatherhood thing. But to be fair, she had talked him into Sam, Dean had been a complete accident.

He watched Dean dry heave into the sink a few more times before dropping to all fours to clean up the mess he had made. John could clearly still see the form of the pills in a puddle of nothing but water and saliva. Luckily not really enough to make it stink the room up. Crouching over a pile of his own sick made the poor kid dry heave again but he cleaned it up like a pro, never once turning to John to ask for help. Years of keeping up with Sammy the tornado and a father that even by his own estimation could at best be classified as a negligent alcoholic had made Dean efficient in most things domestic and unpleasant. Apparently it didn't matter to him if he made the mess or not.

"Sorry about that." His voice was so rough it was barely audible. Dean took exactly two staggering steps back towards his bed then crawled on hands and knees from the bottom to the top, just like Sammy used to do when he was a kid.

"Don't worry about it. Guess I should have told you I put a bucket beside your bed." John gave him a weak smile, hoping to lighten the mood.

"Yeah, that would have been helpful." He could hear Dean's teeth chattering, even though he tried to hide it. John was almost uncomfortably warm and wondered if he should take Dean to hospital. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen Dean this sick but then again, he never really had paid much attention. It wasn't because he didn't care but more because Dean was his and Sammy's rock. Dean not being ok was like the Impala not running, such an infrequent occurrence that it through everyone for a loop.

His decision was made for him by the soft rhythmic breathing coming from the other bed. He wasn't about to wake Dean up just to embarrass him by over reacting to an upset stomach. He got comfortable again and hoped he might actually be able to get some sleep now. And he did for another two hours or so until he heard Dean stirring again. The poor kid was having a hell of a time trying to untangle himself from all his blankets. John handed him the basin, "here." Dean balked at it but soon had no choice and hugged it like a pro.

When he was finished, he again tried to struggle out of bed but John headed him off. "Let me take that," he took the rubbish bin away, trying to decide if the croaking sound Dean made was a 'thanks,' or something else. He left the water in the tub running and stuck his head back out and caught Dean with his water bottle pressed against his forehead. He lowered it the moment he noticed John was there as if he were embarrassed to be caught doing something to make himself feel better. John could have kicked himself even harder. The kid had a monster fever and a cool compress would probably feel like heaven. Man, he was rusty as shit with this type of thing.

He quickly wet a flannel and took it out to Dean along with the cleaned bucket. "This will probably feel better than a luke warm bottle of water," he proffered the moistened cloth, wondering if Dean hadn't gotten it for himself because he thought it would make him look weak or the promise of relief from a cold compress was outweighed by how shitty he felt and his desire to not move.

"Thanks," Dean rasped and at least managed to force sound into the entire word this time.

"Time for another temp check, I think." John turned on the thermometer.

"Dad, I'm,'

"If the phrase, 'I'm fine,' come out of your mouth again I swear to god you will be sucking your supper through a straw for the next six weeks, kid." John snapped, tired of Dean's insistence that nothing was wrong and just plain tired. Dean didn't try to fight him again. "104.3, higher but not dangerous."

"I'll be Ok, Dad. It's not a big deal."

"Really, you normally spend half the night regurgitating?"

"No, but." Dean trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

"But what?" He failed at sounding non confrontational.

"Nothing, I was just kind of sick a couple days ago too but it went away." Dean concentrated on the ceiling, looking anywhere but at John.

"And? What exactly does 'kind of sick,' mean?"

"Nothing, I just had bad headache for a couple days and was sick to my stomach but then I got better."

"Were you throwing up then, too?"

"Not the last time."

John took a deep breath and let it out to calm himself before continuing the conversation, "this has happened more than once?" Dean nodded, not trusting his voice anymore. "Did you see a doctor?" Again a headshake but this time a 'no.' "Why not?"

"I was busy." Dean had to clear his throat to actually be heard.

"Busy?" John shook his head, "were you vomiting the other times too or just now?"

"A couple times, but like I said, it went away. I'm sure I'll be fine by tomorrow."

John rolled his eyes towards heaven and prayed for the strength not to strangle his pigheaded son. "And you didn't think I needed to know about it?"

"You were 1500 miles away, what could you have done?" Dean had him there but damn it he wanted to know if his sons were sick or hurt. What if there had been something he could have done? But he supposed the point was moot since he had basically kept Dean in radio silence for nearly a month while he had been with Adam. In fact, before he had called him and told him to come to Texas for this hunt, John hadn't talked to him in three weeks.

"Maybe nothing but I still deserve to know if you aren't up to a hunt before I bank on you being able to pull it off." He tried not to notice how pained Dean looked at the accusation he couldn't do his job.

"I'm sorry." He could easily tell Dean was sorry for getting sick not keeping John in the dark.

"Go to sleep." John snapped, not sure if he was more annoyed at Dean or himself. Dean complied and John tried not to grind his teeth.

It wasn't even 90 minutes later that Dean was up again. John felt a lot of his previous anger evaporate as he watched his boy struggle not to get sick again but fail miserably. He lasted through one retch before he sat down next to him and wrapped one arm around Dean's shoulders and used the other to steady the trash bin. The kid whimpered and pressed on his forehead, bringing up more hideous green slime.

"God, Dad, I fucking hate this," he groaned wretchedly.

"I know, I hate it too, kiddo, but it's ok, I gotcha, just relax. It'll be over soon." John pulled him a little closer, unconsciously planting a kiss on the crown of Dean's head. Dean leaned into him a little more, like a cold puppy trying to crawl into someone's lap to get warm. He was struck for a moment by the oddness of the situation. Normally it was Dean holding him up, when he was too drunk to stumble to the bathroom. But stranger was having Dean in his arms. He literally couldn't remember the last time he had hugged his eldest, probably sometime before the Shtriga attack, before he had lost so much respect for him. It felt strange but also right.

He had blamed Dean for that for so long, no matter what Bobby or Jim or anyone else told him. He wouldn't hear that is was criminal to leave a nine year old watching a 5 year old for three days. Nor would he listen that no one could possibly expect that much responsibility out of a such a young kid. He wouldn't even listen to hunter's logic that even if Dean had been in the room, he hadn't left consecrated iron rounds and all Dean would have done was likely gotten both him and his brother killed. He still remembered angrily shouting to Jim that he wished, "the insubordinate prick had gotten himself whacked because at least then he would have died following orders." To which Jim had shot back, "_then maybe you should book a ticket to the Republic of Vietnam and re enlist, since that is the only place where a fucking10 year old could be accounted a soldier_." John had stormed out and stayed away for 4 days and spent another 2 weeks giving Dean the silent treatment. After that, there relationship had changed considerably. Where before Dean had wanted to make his father happy, now he lived for John's approval. He never saw Dean play again unless he was keeping Sammy entertained. Even before Dean hadn't really been a child but after the Shtriga, he never saw he son do anything remotely childlike again, even though he could still be pretty childish.

And he had never really felt guilty about it. He had needed Dean sharp and focused so he didn't look a gift horse in the mouth. That was until he met Adam. At 12, his youngest wasn't half the man Dean had been at seven. It wasn't until he saw the utter light and life in Adam's eyes as he ran and played with his friends that John started to realize what a shit hand he had purposely dealt Dean. Sammy had almost as bad but he at least had an ace in the hole in his big brother. But really what could he do about it now? Dean would turn 23 in a little over a month and it was too late for baseball games and bounce-house birthday parties. But he decided the least he could do was hold the kid up so he didn't face plant into a bucket of his own vomit.

As he rinsed the trash bin out and kept an ear on Dean to make sure he was at least trying to drink, he mind churned on what could be wrong with his son. Dean by enlarge was healthy, or seemed healthy. John didn't bother considering him sick unless he noticed, which was not very often. The last time he could think of was probably 3 years ago, when he had had to have his tonsils taken out. He wondered if maybe Dean had a migraine since he had mentioned his head hurting but that wouldn't account for the fever and Sammy was the one who got migraines. More likely the fever caused the headache but what could have caused the fever, food poisoning maybe? It really didn't matter though, as soon as it was light out, John was dragging the kid to a doctor.

John came back out to find Dean curled on his side, one arm wrapped firmly around his stomach, the other holding his barely damp compress over his eyes. It struck him that even if Dean hadn't been quite this sick before, it still must have sucked the big one to have to deal with it all by himself. He sank down on his own bed, exhausted in a way he hadn't felt in ages. "Hey, kiddo, you need anything?"

Dean cleared his throat, "no I'm good." It sounded painful.

"Obviously," John mumbled. He noticed Dean had only had half a bottle of water since he had dropped him off that afternoon. That wasn't nearly enough. "You need to drink something." He held out the bottle, wondering if he should switch to Gatorade.

"Maybe later."

"Now, Dean."

Dean shook his head slightly, "seriously, I don't think I can keep it down right now."

John bit his lip in indecision, trying to remember what he was supposed to do now. "There's a coke machine down the way, I can get you a Sprite."

"Dad," Dean growled, his voice sounding as gravely as a lifelong smoker, "I just want to sleep."

"Alright," he whispered, lamenting the return of pissy, sick Dean. He guessed that the poor guy was entitled to be a bit snappish considering how bad he felt.

Dean had another go just before dawn and John didn't even bother trying to go back to sleep. Instead he relaxed in bed for an hour or so then took a shower before heading over to the diner to get some breakfast and more importantly coffee. The same woman smiled at him and he took a seat at the counter, flipping his coffee mug up immediately.

"Good morning, rough night?" She asked, while pouring his morning drink. He was glad she didn't leave any room at the top and remembering he took it black.

"You have no idea." He nodded his thank you.

"Son still feelin' bad?" She stretched out the last word into two syllables. John never could understand why Texans insisted on finding new and interesting ways to mangle the English language. How could words like "bad" become "ba'had" yet "oil" and "fire" were mashed into little more than tonal grunts and don't even get him started on the way they said "pie."

"Yeah, by the way, do you know of any clinics 'round here? I need to drag his sorry ass to a doctor."

"Well, sweetie, there's a hospital not far with an emergency room. But if it isn't that serious your best bet is the CareNow down in Denton. With school out at the college it shouldn't be too crowded." She handed him a magnet with the company's logo on it from the side of the cash register. "Here, it's where I take my two when they're sick." It was a good enough endorsement for John so he felt no guilt in diving into his omelet the same way Dean did into muff.

As he was pulling out money for his bill, owner lady came back, handing him a neatly wrapped package. "Here's some dry toast and a few biscuits," John looked down to count out more cash but she stopped him, "on the house." He wondered if he should mention that his son was 22 and tougher than most combat Marines. "Besides, the big boys are the ones that are hardest to take care of." She winked at him and he didn't bother to hide his laugh. Sometimes he wished he looked like Elkins, Singer, or even Murphy. Anyone of the three of them could walk in here and no one would remember them from Joe. But him and Dean, that was a different story. Half women they met at any given place either wanted to mother them or fuck them. The dangers of having pretty kids, he guessed. He just thanked god everyday that Dean wasn't a girl. He didn't even want to think about how bad his "daddy issues" would be then.

On the way back he called to get directions to the CareNow and find out what insurance they took. Luckily they happened to have credit cards that matched accepted insurance so all in all the day was looking up. That was until he got back to the room. He flipped on the light between the beds and stopped. If he hadn't heard his son's congested breathing, he might have been tempted to put a mirror under his nose to see if he was even still alive. He was pretty sure he had burned things in coffins that looked more animated than his son did right now. Part of him wanted to let Dean sleep as long as he could because chances were rest was the only thing that would actually make him feel better but another larger part wanted to make sure they got an early start since this place was a first come first serve clinic.

Frankly, though, he was surprised that Dean hadn't woken up already but then again the kid was probably exhausted. But part of being a father was doing what had to be done, so he put his foot at the end of the mattress and gave the whole thing a good shake. "Up and at'em, kiddo, I need you showered, shaved, and ready to shag ass in 15." Dean moaned, actually moaned from the movement of the bed but sat up anyway.

"Where to?" It took him three tries to actually get the two simple words out.

"Clinic in Denton, it's about a 45 minute drive so we need to head out ASAP." He handed Dean a cold coke from the vending machine. "And drink at least half of that. I'm going to go grab a paper." He closed the door behind him taking mental bets on if Dean's need to please him and follow orders would override his desire to stay cocooned in bed.

By the time he got back, 20 minutes later just in case Dean was moving slow, his son was lying down at the end of his bed, with his legs hanging over it. He looked like he had started out sitting but was too tired to stay upright. He was, however, fully dressed and literally so pale he looked grey. John noticed he had consumed some of his coke but not half.

"Ready to rumble?" John asked as he walked in.

"What happened to the 24 hour rule? I haven't been sick for a whole day, just a couple hours." He had a point but John dismissed it unwilling to spend even one more hour cleaning rank, green vomit out of a motel trash can.

"Rules don't apply when you lie me."

"I didn't lie, I just neglected to tell you." John crossed his arm, feeling his good mood from earlier start to evaporate. "Come on, dad, can't we just wait a few hours?" He had yet to even drop the arm he had covering his eyes, much less move to sit up.

"No! So get up before I use my foot to propel your lazy ass out of the door." Dean moved his arm and John was met by bloodshot eyes with dark bags under them just adding to the death warmed over look his son had going on. He took mercy and held out his hand and pulled Dean up, when he accepted it.

When Dean was completely on his feet, what little color he had from his fever even fled his face and he wobbled sideways unsteadily. John deftly side stepped in case he spewed. He had to get him to a doctor post haste. There had to be something they could do. "Dad, can't we just wait a little bit?" Dean rarely asked him for anything and he might have almost been moved to give in, if he weren't so tired and cranky from the kid waking him up every couple hours to chunk.

"No, so stop arguing." He headed towards the door but Dean stayed where he was. Ok, now he was fully pissed.

"Seriously can't I lie down for a little while longer?" Had he not been so damn angry, he might have recognized that the kid was trying to tell him that he felt too sick at the moment for a car ride but frankly all he heard was disobedience.

He grabbed the front of Dean's shirt and yanked him towards the door. "Since you are not your brother, you damn well know my orders are not up for debate, so you better get into that car before the next thing you eat is the back of my hand," he snarled.

He managed to get Dean all the way to the door before the little turd dug his heels in and refused to move. "Dad," he whimpered, actually fully whimpered and John turned around. He was met with the sight of Dean partially hunched over with one hand over his mouth and his whole body shaking with the effort of not losing it on his old man's shoes. John let go and he took off like a sling shot towards the bathroom, coming to a skidding halt on his knees in the knick of time. Ok, maybe John sort of overreacted to Dean questioning him but who could blame him, he was tired and cranky.

Dean emerged a few minutes later and slumped over the sink, brushing his teeth again. John didn't give him a chance to sit down though, "you ready to go now?" Dean hung his head in defeat and shuffled after his father. John made sure to grab the ice bucket from the dresser, just in case, along with some more water he was going to force feed the kid if he had to.

TBC


End file.
